


All I Wanted Was a Lousy Glass of Water

by abstractconcept



Series: The Epic of Porn [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Thoughts, M/M, Pre-Slash, snarody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 07:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: Harry can’t get Snape out of his head.





	All I Wanted Was a Lousy Glass of Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loupgarou1750 (LoupGarou)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoupGarou/gifts).



> BETAS: Much thanks to the Sharp Shaldana, and the Jaunty just_juxtaposed for their fabulous assistance!   
> NOTES: A follow-up to ‘I Need. . ." as my Master good friend requested. But didn’t order. Lieutenant’s offering to her Dark Lords Masters Commanders, Stellahobbit and Loupgarou1750. I’m sorry Loup is having such a hard time of it. Er. Yeah. So anyway, this is the segue of two other dirty stories, the next of which I hope to have done in a day or so. In conclusion: EVERYONE on their knees! (Part of 'The Epic of Porn' series written way back in 2004)
> 
> And posted here and now for Kaladina. :) 
> 
> Also, I fully intended to post this out of order (I mean, set the real publication date) but I can't figure out when I originally posted it and I'm in a hurry to get home.

            Harry lay awake in his bed, curtains drawn, Silencing Charm up—just in case, really. Because he wasn’t going to _do_ anything. It wasn’t like he was making any noise. He was just lying in bed… _thinking_. About doing things. Filthy things…sexual things…incredibly arousing things. _Damn it. All I wanted was a lousy glass of water, and I walk away with the worst hard-on I’ve ever had._

             It was Snape’s fault, really. Harry hadn’t done anything wrong. All he’d done was stand there. All he’d done was get splashed by a little of Neville’s potion. He hadn’t done it on purpose. All he’d done was get thirsty and try to ask for a glass of water. He couldn’t help it if the man took two measly words and leapt to the wrong conclusion. Harry shuddered, acutely aware of how the blankets were trapping the heat against his skin. _You need to be unclothed, naked, glorying in the flush of your skin being brushed by the cool dungeon air?_ He was acutely aware of how the sheets were twisted round him, irritatingly restrictive, damp with his sweat, and tightening around his body every time he moved. _You need to be touched…?_ He was acutely aware of how his underwear felt, as his erection strained to be free of its confines, pressed urgently against the cotton fabric. _To have my skin ghost across the hard flatness of your muscles, caress the delicate sensitive spots, press forcefully against the ache, the want, the need?_ Harry swallowed. _How I’d love to straddle one of those lean, hard thighs right now, to have those hands capture my own and pin them above my head, to have those avid eyes taking in my every movement, and…_

            “Ooohhh.” Harry rolled over, pulling a pillow down over his head. This was not fair. He was not supposed to be here, awake in the middle of the night, thinking of sex, imagining Snape. He was not supposed to be wondering what the man wore under his robes, if anything, and what he looked like without any robes at all. He wasn’t supposed to be picturing those long, elegant fingers sliding up and down his body, up and down his _cock_ , until he was writhing and undulating and slick with sweat, and _begging_ for more. He was not. Supposed. To be _thinking_ this way. He should have Snape fired.

             He could. Harry could go to Dumbledore, explain what happened, and watch the Potions Master pack his bags, leave in disgrace, and never be seen again. It had been one of Harry’s favourite fantasies for a couple of years, now. But did he still want that? Harry didn’t really think he did. Actually, those fantasies had quite suddenly and unexpectedly turned to rather different ones—of sinful words slipping from a sharp tongue in a deep voice, of eyes that flashed with something quite different than hatred, of intrusive fingers slipping into sensual places Harry’d never even much considered in that light before.

             Taking deep breaths, Harry used his willpower to keep his hands away from his erection. He was _not_ going to wank off to images of Snape. That would be….wrong. _Don’t you think he’s wanking off to images of you?_ A voice in his head suggested, and Harry froze, wide eyed. Snape _had_ looked at him earlier as though he’d like to…devour him. Dear God. Poor choice of phrase. How could he keep his hands away from himself when he insisted on thinking thoughts like that?

             _Did_ Snape think of Harry that way? _Could_ he? Even though he hated Harry, and Harry hated him? Was pretty sure he hated him. Perhaps not as much as he had this morning, but still. Harry remembered the way the man’s eyes raked over his body, and how it felt as though fingernails had followed the same path, making Harry shiver with anticipation.

             One of Harry’s hands had slid down, and was now cupping his balls. When he realized what he was doing, he jerked the offending hand away. What was he _doing_? He couldn’t masturbate and think of Snape! God, he couldn’t even imagine how angry the man would be if he found out. _Especially because you were cruel enough to do it when he couldn’t watch_ , the little voice in the back of Harry’s head piped up, and he flinched. _Not true,_ he protested to himself. _Snape wouldn’t want that. He’d be angry. He’d think it was dirty. He’d punish me, and—_ His hand slipped down again, rubbing his length through his underwear. Harry could hear Snape’s voice as clearly as though the man had his lips next to his ear. _You need what, Harry? To be turned over my desk and taught a lesson you’ll not soon forget? Do you wish me to spank you, to hurt you, to punish you for every perceived imperfection?_ Why hadn’t he answered back? Why hadn’t he told Snape to go to hell? Why hadn’t he told Snape what a pervert the man was? Why hadn’t he told Snape, _Oh God, yes please, take me and spank me and touch me and run those lovely fingers through my hair, and shove my head down over your cock and make me take and take and take…_

            Whimpering, Harry sat up in bed. He was so hard that it _ached._ What was he going to _do_? All he could think about was Professor Snape—with his dark voice and dark eyes and dark intentions. Harry shuddered, not unpleasantly. Snape _wanted_ him. He was _sure_ of it. Harry couldn’t get the memory of that afternoon out of his head. The man had stood near him—close, so close—running a finger down Harry’s body—from the pulse in his throat to the throb of his groin—had whispered lustful, _hungry_ words—words like _embrace_ and _heat_ and _wet—_ and his eyes had burned with need.

             Was he burning still, Harry wondered? Was he aflame with need? Was he in his own bed, right now, running cool fingers over the hot surface of his cock? Were his hips lifting in passionate rhythm, wanting to get closer to that imagined heat that lay floors and floors above? Did sweat trickle down his thin chest, which rose and fell with each pant that escaped those thin lips? Was that rich, musical voice, right now, groaning, “ _Harry_ ,” in a way it’d never been said before?

             Harry threw back his covers and slipped out of bed. He couldn’t take this anymore. He was going _mad._ And how _dare_ the man be doing that—jacking off without Harry? He wasn’t going to stand for it. Snape thought he could stand there, and fill Harry’s ears with gorgeous dirty smut, and get him all hard and desperate, and then send him on to his next class as if nothing had happened? Unacceptable. Harry had had enough. Slipping on his invisibility cloak, he grabbed his glasses and plunked them on his nose, ready to head for the dungeons. He was going to teach Snape a lesson, for once. He fumbled for his wand, his head still filled with echoes of the man’s purring voice. _Do you need me to ride you—hard—taking what I need and thereby giving you the same? You need to hear my voice, whispering filthy, wanton words into your virgin ears, while my cock thrusts and drives and fills your equally virgin arse?_ Harry squeezed the base of his cock, trying to calm himself down. By God, he’d show Snape! He was going straight downstairs to demand what was rightfully his!


End file.
